


Hello, Mike

by RosVailintin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Song Lyrics, Why Did I Write This?, between Baskervilles and The Reichenbach Fall, not really what the series said, there's a hole in my brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5668540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosVailintin/pseuds/RosVailintin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is him. I keep telling myself, This bloody IS him. Or should it be This bloody is HIM. Either way, it's hard for me to believe what is in my sight right now. He's turning around. To me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, Mike

**Author's Note:**

> Just came back from the fucking CEE and I need something to...yeah I don't know I've got bunches of homework that I haven't touched yet...Maybe one day I'll make this a long work, about the length of _[Crystal Globe](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5343728)_. I've already got some super cool ideas about it but no I won't say them all here. So hope you enjoy this thing, and if anyone is having some exams now or has just had them or is going to have them, hope you do/did well! x

It's like you're in glass breaking.

\- HomeTown·The Night We Met

* * *

It's the first time that I've seen him. Greg has long told me that they nearly got this guy, and now here he is, finally, if this is what they've been praying for.

I got the call from Greg this morning, and he asked me to come here. He said that they've FINALLY got him locked up, and that I'd be excited to see this, for that it meant that my brother and his petit ami, if he wouldn't beat me up for calling him like that, as well as all the lovely people in this city, this country, even this world, you could say, would be safe. I don't doubt that. Safe for this moment, I mean.

So I came here.

They put him in an isolation cell. I hear the sound of whipping, and some undistinguished curse.

I guess the Warden sees me frown. 'He deserves it.' he says, as if it would be a comfort for me.

I keep silent. The one thing that's good about being a government official is that, when you shut your mouth up, others will usually shut up too. Good for me.

The Warden inserts the key into the keyhole. Through the bars, I see a body hanging from the centre of the ceiling, pale. A turnkey is flogging the body with a lash. The other, his lash in the right hand, is yelling something that sounds like 'git' - or 'gay', I'm not really sure. I don't even know if he's still alive. Greg didn't tell me that they were executing him this soon. And I don't remember whipping as one of the forms of execution.

The Warden turns the key. This cold, metallic sound doesn't seem to be a reminder for the turnkeys that they're not here to strap bodies. He opens the bars, and I enter. And I'm just arriving on time to see it so clear, the lash drawing an elegant arc in the air, then landing hard on the already badly mutilated skin stretched tautly across the back of the body, leaving another glaring weal. He shivers, very slightly.

Then they see me. I guess they haven't heard my steps, not even the sound of the keys, nor have they smelt my cologne. I'm trying Gucci guilty diamond these days, though I don't think lavenders really fit me. I'd better go back to Burberry Brits.

'Sir.' the turnkeys held their lashes behind.

'Get out.' I hear the Warden demanded behind me.

'No, no,' I say slowly, trying to look composed, and walk over, 'not yet.'

I cast a quick glance at the body. He has his back towards me - he was probably just hung up like that - and he is naked. All naked. I'm not really used to seeing naked bodies, except for the sculptures. When I'm well-dressed and I see someone - dead or alive - naked, it makes me feel rather uncomfortable. Then you'd say, Well, what about when you're not well-dressed? And I'd tell you, Well, that's part of the top secrets, and none of your business. Certainly, this bloody naked body here is making me more uncomfortable than ever. There's a strong odor of blood around it.

'Who is this?' I ask the turnkey who was just flogging the body. Of course I know who this is.

He surely is surprised, or probably and more exactly, amused, by my question. 'This...His name is James Moriarty, sir.' I guess it's really hard for him to not take the question as a joke.

I take another longer look at the body. 'Why did you whip him?' I ask as calmly as I can, keeping my eyes on the weals.

'He refused to answer questions, sir. We were sent here to ask him things, but he hasn't said a word yet.'

'Do you think you can make him tell you what you wanna hear just by hanging him up and beating him? You think he still can speak now?' I stare at them, 'Muscles are connected with one another, boys. You hung him up like this, you hurt his trapezius and latissimus dorsi, so he needs to put most of his concentration on keeping the head up, and you think he can still answer your...questions?' I've intended to add a 'bloody' before 'questions', but I stop myself.

The turnkeys just gaze at me. I don't think they get what I'm talking about.

'Put him down.' I say. At this moment, I see James Moriarty stir. From the slightest movement of his ears, I know that he's smiling.

'But Mr Holmes,' exclaims the Warden, 'he's on death row!'

'There's no "execute by whipping" in the Death Penalty Act.' I look at the Warden, 'And I think you know that hanging by wrists is not the right way of hanging as death penalty. Put him down,' I repeat, 'it's an order.'

I watch them untie the rough remp ropes around his wrists. His wrists are raw, almost excoriated. I wonder how long he'd been hung up there. When both of his wrists are free, he drops on the concrete floor, sort of like a sandbag. But he somehow manages to land much more gracefully than a sandbag would actually do.

'Now you can leave.' I say to the turnkeys.

I certainly know what to ask him, or I wouldn't have even come here. James Moriarty, aka Jim from IT, is not an unfamiliar name at all, especially for me, although his mischieves seems to have more to do with Sherlock. There's another theory, though, saying that Richard Brook has some sort of connection with him. Either that they're just the same person, or that he has some blood relation with Jim. I'm neither believing nor not believing in either of them. Despite who he really is, if the Richard Brook in this theory is the Richard Brook I'm talking about, I pretty like him. I've watched many of his shows at the National Theatre, BAC and Arts Theatre; he's a brilliant panto actor. I still remember watching _Snow White_ one Christmas; it was the first time that I had seen him in a panto. And, for some reason, I was just so impressed by the performance of the evil stepmother. There was some kind of coldness in those large, deep, dark eyes that made you feel so small and weak. It was something that the makeups and colours on his face and around his eyes could not counteract. I'd seen on the posters that the actor was called Richard Brook. I didn't know him at that time, but I did remember this name. Then once some years ago, I visited the backstage of _Alice In Wonderland_. I knew Richard would be there. I saw his name printed large on the posters, and I knew that he played the Queen of Hearts. He was half of the reason why I came and watched, but I'd never seen him without the makeups and costumes before. However, it seemed like he knew that I was coming backstage for a visit, and that I was an official, and he just didn't show up. I asked the other actors, and they simply said that Richard had something important back home, so he left early, and that he apologised for his absence. I felt no more than a bit diappointed then.

But if this theory about Richard and Jim is what the real thing is like, this seems to make some sense now. Yet in another way it just doesn't, because Jim doesn't seem panic at all. It's not that he's been too badly wounded to panic; he just DOESN'T. He can still get up from the ground, so he has definitely heard the Warden call me 'Mr Holmes', and from my voice he would be able to tell that I'm not Sherlock. He knows who I am, and he's not afraid at all. He's not trembling, either this tremble should come from cold autumn weather or fear, or the wounds.

He doesn't turn around. He just slowly gets to his feet. It's obvious that he's suffering from the pain of the weals, but he makes himself seem calm. I'm sure that he knows that I'm standing here watching, just like how I've watched Richard in those theatres, and he's not trying to avoid seeing my face or avoiding me seeing his face. And if Richard is Jim, this doesn't make much sense with his absence everytime I went backstage, either as an official or simply as a fan.

And I'm here to get this clear as well as grabbing some vital information about his criminal networks. I decide not to ask him anything before he have settled himself, and he doesn't bring it up either. There's no window in isolation cells, and the light from a single lightbulb reflected by the walls makes his skin looks even paler, like that of a dead body that has been drowned in the water - or, let's say it in a more elegant way, in the colour of the marble statues. It sounds wierd, but he somehow reminds me of _Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss_ , an incredibly beautiful statue by Antonio Canova, now in Musée du Louvre. It's probably one of my favourites among all the statues there.

And now Jim bends down to reach his overcoat. He doesn't even bother picking up the shirt, pants and trousers. Shamelessly, I'm feeling the fly of my pants getting tight. I take a look at the rags on the gound. The turnkeys must have hung him up first, and then peeled the clothes off him. As for what they've done after that, I've got no idea, whether they simply started flogging him, or that they did some preparation or something else before that. But Jim is looking alright now, despite the terrible weals all over his back - well, maybe that can't be called 'alright'. He picks the overcoat up with his right hand, his left hand on the wall to keep himself from falling down. He doesn't seem to be used to putting on coats with his right hand, even just wrapping himself in it without sliding his arms into the sleeves. He just takes his time. And I just watch, or probably you can call it enjoying this view, in a way.

Then he turns around and faces me.

I know these eyes. These large, deep, dark eyes.

He smiles at me, kind of forced due to the pain of the wounds.

'Hello, Mike.' he says.

**Author's Note:**

> So...yeah that's it. Maybe you'll discover that I'm using some facts about Ian Hallard when writing Richard...And I'm actually thinking about writing some transvestite Jim stuff...Hope you've enjoyed it! x


End file.
